Ch. 31

The tavern was a strange place to frequent when the atmosphere was akin to a burial, although Kelena would have wagered that she'd been to livelier entombments than this.

Grimefell had been a subdued but simmering cesspit of dead air since the uprising, and without their share of the Dreynian water shipment, an undercurrent of fear ran through its people with the possibility of a deadly thirst crept ever closer with each tide.

Supplies were dangerously low and with no respite in sight for them, desperation was stretching the slums beyond all imagining. There had already been stories of raids, violent and brutal, as the desperate turned on their neighbours and took what little water was left for themselves. It was always the way here, but what else could they do? The King cared little for what atrocities they committed upon each other, as long as they dared not look upwards to the merchants and nobles of the higher echelons. They could slit each other's throats until the streets ran red with blood and the rest of the citadel would not so much as raise one perfectly arched brow.

Kelena thought she should perhaps have been grateful the tavern wasn't as busy as it normally was. It meant she could keep a close eye on the comings and goings, but the muted conversations of the patrons instead of the usual raucous drunken chaos was setting her teeth on edge, and she'd not been able to banish the constant prickle of unease that plagued her spine. Most here were keeping their heads down, ensuring their conversations were naught but hushed whispers, and made only with those they knew for certain they could trust. The Order's presence in Grimefell since the unrest was like an iron grip around their necks and no one could risk speaking out of turn in earshot of the Highguards—or their spies—who were finding any excuse to send dissenters to the dead fields.

Rubbing the tangled knot of muscles at the back of her neck with a kneading hand, she slowly scanned the tavern from where she sat in the corner, huddled into a nook in the wall farthest from the entrance. She wasn't working this eventide, but she'd come here to wait for Anton and Bazel to return, preferring the familiarity of a place she knew well, where she could keep her back to the wall and her eye on the door. Pinch had even fixed her some food, a stew drier than a bear's arse and a hardened piece of nettle bread, not that she had much of an appetite for it and even less so when she'd caught the tavern's cook eyeing her newly cut hair, half-hidden under her hood.

The fresh rockfern dye she used to darken it was bothering her scalp and the skin between her side braids was already pinkening where she'd been unable to resist the itch. She'd hacked desperately at her long curls the previous moontide, shearing it as short into the neck as she dared, but she was under no illusions it would do any good. People knew her here. Of course, they knew Kelena, not Tala, but she still had no idea how far Mica's search had stretched and whether they knew the Seadog Inn's serving maid wasn't who she claimed to be.

Kelena looked different enough to Tala, she supposed. Older, obviously. Thicker and stronger, where Tala had been small and feeble, her food portions always monitored and controlled by her husband. Kelena avoided the face powders and coloured creams of the noble women—the cosmetics Tala had been forced to wear as if she were one of the dolls on display on her dresser. The tide Tala had fled from Mica had been the last time she had worn a dress. Now, she favoured men's britches and leather vests, shin-high boots with enough space in which to conceal her swiftblade.

No, she was not Tala now, but she could be as still as her. Tala had mastered that skill like Anton had mastered the brush, and Bazel, a light-fingered touch. Better to be still than be noticed. Better not to be noticed than be seen by those who would do her harm. She hoped that, at least, would help her now.

Ensconced in the shadows, Kelena supped the last of the ale in her cup and pushed her empty bowl away from her. The smell of the stew was starting to make her feel sick, or maybe it was just the thought of this whole fucked-up mess.

And maybe it was the thought of Elara.

Her anguished face when they'd stood on the clifftop. The way the water had dripped from her hair.

The water. The fucking water.

She swiped a tear from her cheek, angry at herself for letting her emotions play out in such a way. She tried not to cry much these tides. It had never served any purpose when she'd been Tala, and she had even less use for it now, and yet she found herself crying silent tears anyway.

Mica's death had not gladdened her the way in which she always assumed it would, and that needled her. She'd imagined it countless times. The thought of him no longer existing. No, the thought of him in pain, first. Suffering. Like her love Lyla had been made to suffer.

Instead, his death scared her in ways she had never imagined it could.

How could a dead person still push fear into her mouth, her throat, her stomach—fill her up with a terror that gave no room for little else inside?

Refilling the cup, she took another swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Elara, where the fuck are you?

She hadn't expected her friend to return home. Of course, she hadn't. But she'd wanted her to. She'd wanted that more than she'd wanted Mica's death. After everything he had done, after every offence he had committed upon her, Kelena found she could exist in a world where Mica still lived, but she couldn't in a world where Elara didn't.

The door to the tavern opened and Kelena pressed farther into the shadows, seeing the familiar forms of Anton and Bazel. She raised no hand in greeting, gave no call to attract their attention. Instead, she waited for them to search her out.

Bazel spotted her first, his keen eyes used to the shadows of the slums. Tugging on Anton's sleeve, the two made their way to her, threading in between the tables, their expressions uncharacteristically grim.

The boy slumped onto the bench next to Kelena, scowling as he too scanned the tavern room, before raising a hand to Dorienne behind the bar for another jug of ale and two cups. Anton pulled up a stool opposite, stretching out one long leg to the side and resting his elbows on the table. Glitter still lingered on his eyelids and stained his cheekbones. Gloss smudged the edges of his lips. He'd been working that eve, but the King had imposed a curfew for all Grimefell citizens to return to the slums before the cusp of moontide. Rats couldn't be trusted with riches.

They said nothing, the three of them, again an uncharacteristic occurrence. There was always chatter. Sometimes disagreements. Often laughter. But silence? That was a rarity.

Dorienne, the Sea Dog Inn's proprietor, came with the ale, setting the cups and jug down on the table, the surface stained beyond all possible saving and etched with the grooves of many a dagger tip. She sniffed and tugged at the knots of her apron ties.

"No Elara this eventide?"

Bazel and Anton did not even look up, but Kelena gave a non-committal shrug and pulled the ale and cups towards them.

Dorienne didn't move and just continued to gaze at them all with narrowed eyes full of question. "They say the Order came for her," she said. "Summat about some merchant she traded with. Found him dead, they did."

"We wouldn't know anything about that, Dor," Bazel said with a grunt, reaching for his tin of dried riverweed and his clay pipe. "And nor will Elara."

The tavern boss pressed her knuckles into the table's edge. Thick, black etchings lined the backs of her hands and up her strong forearms. "Not what Vise says, boy. He reckons she might have had summat to do with it. Brought the Highguards down with him to find her, they say."

Bazel glanced up at her, his face fierce and pinched, as he expertly stuffed weed into the chamber of his pipe without even looking. "Vise wants to watch what he says, as does everyone else. Since when did anyone around here give a slice of steaming brogboar shit for what happens to any fucking noble anyway?"

"Bazel..." Kelena said with warning. The boy's voice had risen above the low chatter of the room, and a few had cast looks their way. He was always like this. Too loud with his words. Too careless. Kelena often wondered how he'd made it this far as a slum-rat without having his hands chopped off and his tongue torn out of his mouth.

Cheeks spotting red, Bazel wrenched his gaze from Dorienne's and went back to lighting the riverweed, sucking furiously on the end of the pipe, and blustering green flumes of smoke out of his nostrils.

"No one gives a shit about the nobles, you little rat bastard," Dorienne replied, leaning down. "But we do give a shit what happens to us as a result and we're always the ones who get the bloody blame and don't you forget it. First there was that novice dragged out of the Setalah and now this merchant. It's bad business, that's what it is."

"Bad for your business, you mean," Bazel sniped.

"Aye, so what if it is? You can't serve ale to the dead, which is what we'll all be if we don't get that water."

"Aye, well..." Bazel replied, pulling a face as he mimicked Dorienne's voice. "...the King won't keep it up, mark my words."

"Bazel..." It was Anton who spoke this time, grabbing the cups and the ale and pouring a generous draught for the boy. "Have a drink and shut the fuck up." He gave Dorienne a brash, glossy grin that usually did the trick, but seemed to fall short of the mark this eventide. "Never mind him, the curfew is killing trade. He's just smarting that he's going to get his scrawny arse kicked by Cree for his empty pockets."

Dorienne wiped her hands down the front of her chest, the apron bib already saturated with enough grog that she could probably have wrung out half a cupful. "From what I hear, Cree's got enough to be getting on with. The Order are on his back too, summat about him stirring up the people to take to the streets in the first place."

Bazel wrinkled his nose. "You know better than to pass on any talk of Cree, Dor. The last one who did that was the tanner Raven and he ended up being dangled off Midgulch Bridge by his tiny cock."

"Aye, well, I don't have one of those, boy, but I do keep a bird's beak blade in my undebritches if Cree wants to try summat." She chuckled. "Although I wouldn't mind if he wants to look."

Bazel tore the pipe from his mouth and stared into the chamber. "This must be cut with some Dreynian mountain wolf shit because suddenly I feel very nauseous."

"Little fucker." Dorienne scowled and gave them all a nod before snatching Kelena's empty bowl and walking away, grimacing as she passed the bowl under her nose.

Bazel sat hunched over, scowling through the cloud of green mist swirling about his head.

"What were you thinking, you dutzal?" Anton hissed, leaning across the table. "You can't be so loose with that tongue of yours."

"I forgot, that's your speciality," the boy replied, with a roll of his eyes as he took a swig of ale.

"Without which Leon Kro-Balnar wouldn't have sung tonight like a fucking wallowsoar bird."

Anton raised the cup to his gloss-smudged lips and took a long drink, his hand trembling. Kelena stared at him through the smoke. It wasn't like Anton to look so agitated.

"What is it?" she said. "What's happened?"

"Where's Elara?" He shot back, chewing on his lip, his gaze not leaving hers.

She'd not told them. Had let them assume that Elara was laying low because of the Koh-Miralus thing. It wasn't a lie as such, after all, it partly was that, but to tell them the truth? Kelena could barely wrap her head around it herself. How could she even begin to explain it to them too? It bothered her that by not telling them, she was doing exactly what she had rebuked Elara for and the hypocrisy of that burned under her skin. Everything burned under her skin. The pain of believing Elara was lost to the water. The shock of seeing her friend wade free from the Setalah. The angry words she had blurted out in a wave of fear and disbelief on the clifftop.

"I—I don't know..." she began, seeing Anton's brow furrow deeper. "Gordako, just tell me what's happening?"

Anton huddled over the table, taking a sidelong glance first to make sure no one was within earshot of their conversation. "Leon told me the King plans to grant Grimefell a reward in return for a show of loyalty. He's going to reinstate the water rations if we give him what he wants."

Kelena felt cold then, just as she'd done standing overlooking the ocean, with her heart in her mouth, her breath lodged in her throat and sea salt stinging her eyes.

"What does he want?"

Anton flicked a glance at Bazel then, who just slouched further down on the bench, sucking on the pipe, his eyes rimmed red by the weed. The courtesan cupped the ale in both hands, draining it dry, before reaching to the jug for a refill. Kelena's hand shot out and grabbed hold of his wrist. He stopped and met her desperate gaze with his own.

"They say there's a Naiad here in the slums, Kelena. The King wants us to find her and hand her over." He snatched back his arm, filled his cup, and drank steadily until it was done. "And Grimefell will do it. We will do it." His bottom lip quivered. "Where is she?" he whispered. "Where's Elara?"

Kelena swallowed hard.

"Drink up both of you. We need to leave. Right now."

***

Kelena hated it when the streets were this quiet.

It wasn't right. Wasn't natural. Grimefell was clamour and bustle. Chaos and fury. It wasn't this. It was never this.

"Kelena, where are we going?" hissed Anton, as he and Bazel trailed alongside her.

His heeled boots were making too much noise on the cobblestone. She wanted to wrench them off his feet and throw them in the Setalah. Let them sink to the bottom with the bones and the bodies.

"Kelena..."

"Home," she mumbled. "We're going home."

Home. It was a shithole, that place. Walls thick with damp and crumbling brick. Dry rot and barely enough room for the four of them. But it was home. Give her a choice between the luxury in which she'd lived when she'd been Tala, and their slum dwelling, and she'd have chosen damp walls and rotten wood every time. Because it had never been about the house. It had been about them.

"But, what about Elara..."

Kelena whirled around and dragged them both into the nearest passageway, the overhang from the residing dwellings squeezing the moonlight to barely a glimmer above their heads. She pressed her fingers against Anton's mouth, her other hand grasping a handful of Bazel's tunic to pull him close.

"Say not one word of her. Not here. Not until it's safe."

Bazel's eyes were wide in the bruised light. "Tell us it's not what we think...Kelena, tell us!"

Kelena's face grew hot for the second time that eventide, eyes wet and heavy. She pushed her forehead into Anton's neck, feeling the rapid, ragged rise and fall of his chest against her own. She felt his hands grip her back, clutching onto her as if he might fall, even though it was she who leant on him. Bazel, who rarely appeared panicked about anything unless it involved losing his coin, stared at them both, looking more like the boy he really was than he ever did.

She touched his smooth face, cupping his cheek in her palm, an action that would usually make him recoil or shrug her off with some cutting rebuke.

"Let us go home and I will tell you...I will, I will...but home first..."

Gesturing for them to follow, she turned to leave and stopped abruptly, the gasp wrenched through her open lips as if an unseen hand had reached out and tore the breath straight from her mouth.

A man blocked their path, and in the dim light—the kind of desperate, hopeless light only found in Grimefell—Kelena saw the distinctive mark of the Order upon his face, his hand gripping the pommel of his double-bladed scimitar at his waist.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Anton squeezed Kelena's hand, attempting to pull her back and put himself in her place.

Oh, Gordako, you brave, foolish, beautiful bastard.

"W–where is who?" she dared to reply, hating the tremor in her voice.

"Don't play me for a fool, girl," the Highguard said, his grip tightening on the blade.

He stepped closer, the shadow draining from his face as he pushed back the hood of his cloak and Kelena's fear turned into something she could not understand because she knew what he was. He was The Order. The King's Guard. The one that would see them hung from the palace walls or dragged onto one of Ban-Keren's transport vessels to perish in the dead fields. That's who he was. That's who they all were.

And yet, in his eyes, she saw something else entirely.

"Please," he said—pleaded—to her, his hand dropping from the blade. "Please. I must find her. I must find Elara...before it's too late."